


Advice is Like Snow

by holograms



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, War, War violence, blanket sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:46:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can’t remember the last time that he wasn’t cold, and he figures he’ll be cold forever — but he tries not to imagine too far ahead. When he does, he thinks of an endless winter, being blown up by a mortar attack, being riddled with bullets by a firing squad after being sentenced to treason.  None of the options are favorable.</p><p>[Klink goes with Hogan and Co. to the Eastern Front for a mission]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advice is Like Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for descriptions of violence not typical to the show. Seriously.
> 
> The title is from a quote by Samuel Taylor Coleridge: "Advice is like snow - the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper in sinks into the mind."
> 
> I am not 100% certain on this historical part about this, but the show is never clear on time lines and there's talk about Stalingrad throughout the series, so. Yeah.

“Hogan, the next time you tell me to trust you, I’m not,” Klink says, shivering and wrapping his coat tighter around him. Since he came to the Eastern Front, it’s a repetitive motion that he does, but it’s useless — the cold still finds a way to seep in, biting and harsh.

He can’t remember the last time that he wasn’t cold, and he figures he’ll be cold forever — but he tries not to imagine too far ahead. When he does, he thinks of an endless winter, being blown up by a mortar attack, being riddled with bullets by a firing squad after being sentenced to treason.  None of the options are favorable.

“That’s what you always say,” Hogan mumbles from beside him.  “And yet, here we are sharing a foxhole in Stalingrad.”

Klink _harrumphs_ the best he can through his chattering teeth.

He isn’t claustrophobic, but if he spends many more days cramped up in this hole in the ground he imagines he could become so. The foxhole is cold, small, and miserable; it’s uncomfortable and he has to slightly bend his knees (not that he could ever sleep soundly anyway, with gunfire jerking him awake him at all hours), and even though they dug deep into the frozen ground using pathetically small shovels, the cold still finds them.  (If he were here as his real rank instead of as a lieutenant, he would never have had to dig his own foxhole, and he wouldn’t be this close to the line, he wouldn’t have worry about things like flying shrapnel and trees exploding, he wouldn’t have to pick up a rifle and kill when instructed.)

At least while he was in the foxhole, he was protected from harm — for the most part.  He’d discovered that mortars can still find you no matter where you are; only two days ago one made a direct hit into a hole a few over that held two men — two _boys_ that he hardly knew, who were too young to die and probably not trained enough to be in combat, and shouldn’t have been fighting in this war on end for an out-of-control madman. Their blood and pieces of them too small to pick up stained the snow, making a crimson slush, and it was something that haunted him — the whistling noise of an incoming round made Klink turn his head and he saw how in one moment they were there, the next kaput, gone, as dirt and other unmentionables rained down.

When he woke up that night whimpering and thrashing from a dream, he was grateful that Hogan had said nothing, because after all, how could he know, he didn’t _see._

It’s all too much, and he isn’t sure how much longer he can last.  Hogan promises it’ll only be a couple days more until they get the information they need and then they could go back to their stalag.  Although Hogan has never let him or any of his other men down (because notwithstanding the occasional smart-alecky insult, he’s considered one of _them_ now, and he decided he enjoys that after Kinch pulled him aside one day and said that _it’s okay, we all rag on each other, it’s what we do_ ), Klink feels as though he will never leave this snowy hell.  He wonders why he agreed to this insane espionage mission anyway. He could have let them go here on their own…but an annoying nagging feeling in his chest just wouldn’t let him (and now looking back it was quite stupid of him to think that they couldn’t fare without their _kommandant_ ). Sometimes he wishes he could go back to before, before he learned that he isn’t in total control of his camp as he had thought, the time before he risked being discovered as a traitor every day. It’d make his life easier, going back to the assurance of being safe (unless he didn’t _heil!_ empathic enough, or if the Gestapo decided to be rid of him on a whim). But it’s like Plato and his caves: once you’ve turned away from the shadows on the wall and have walked out of the cave into the sunlight, you cannot go back.

He repeats the futile task of attempting to warm himself by wrapping his coat tighter around him, and lets out a shaky breath he didn’t know he had been holding.  In the dim light he sees the air in front of him turn white and curl away from him like smoke.

“I can hear you thinking.  If you don’t stop, I’m going to move in with Newkirk and LeBeau,” Hogan says, his voice muffled.  Klink shifts so he can look at him and thinks that they’re a sight to see, with Hogan pressed up against Klink’s side and his face is buried into his shoulder desperately trying to find warmth, and them sharing a filthy blanket draped that’s across their legs.  Hogan is the only cozy thing about this whole ordeal and that’s why he wants to beg, _no please don’t leave me_ because he can’t do this alone. Having another person close to you offers warmth, but it’s the companionship that makes the all suffering tolerable.

Hogan had emphasized the importance of Under Circumstances No English Is To Be Spoken the moment they left Stalag 13. Even though Klink will never grow used to Hogan wearing a Luftwaffe uniform and him speaking German as if he’s done it all his life, Hogan’s still the same as he ever is. He’s what keeps him steady — like now, keeping him from his thoughts straying too far.

(But he can see how the days are wearing on him too; he’s pale, dark circles line his eyes, and Klink knows that he must be as hungry as he is.)

“Fine, I’ll try to relax,” Klink says. After a moment he adds, “You need to shave.”

“It’s too cold to shave.”

Klink scoffs, because that’s just typically _Amerikaner._ He manages to melt enough snow to shave so he won’t look scruffy like Hogan has become, but that’s just his German efficiency.

Hogan lets out a sigh, and Klink feels his breath warm against his neck.  “Go to sleep, Klink.”

He doubts he’ll be able to and he’d much rather keep Hogan awake by talking to him, but the line is the quietest it’s been all day, and eventually, rest comes to him.

The next morning LeBeau wakes them up by lifting their tarp, knocking fresh snow into their foxhole, and tossing a neatly wrapped package in Hogan’s lap and says, “Time to go, _mes colonels_.”  As Klink has help climbing out of the foxhole by Newkirk taking his hand in his and dragging him out, and despite the memories that he dreads returning in his dreams, he can imagine the snow melting, and a future beyond — after all, he survived this long.

**Author's Note:**

> I drew some inspiration from the "Bastogne" episode of _Band of Brothers_ (if you haven't seen that mini-series, you definitely should!). Thanks for reading, feedback is always great :)


End file.
